Rings
by TorchwoodFallenAngel
Summary: The Doctor has a ring in his pocket. It's there because it hurts him to remember. Here be slash of the Two/Jamie kind.


Some pointless Jamie/Two angsty-stuff. I found the poem at the bottom in a newspaper and it inspired me; it sounds like wedding vows and since it's Scottish and I love Jamie my mind instantly went to SPACE WEDDING ANGST mode. It was going to be more happy but I was in a nostalgic, slashy, angsty mood when I wrote this and I wanted to inflict pain on the Doctor. It's fun. There is an established Two/Jamie relationship in this and a hint of Five/Doctor. My two favourite couples! I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. And, God, doesn't it hurt me to say that.

Rated T for implied sexy-times but nothing graphic.

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><p>The ring on his finger was too heavy after a while. Liz noticed it and wouldn't stop asking questions, a true scientist to the core. The Brigadier noticed it and said nothing. He'd always known. Soon enough it ended up on a chain around his neck and even sooner it was shoved to the bottom of his pocket, buried under all sorts of useless junk. And then it was forgotten; the whole intention.<p>

Sometimes his fingers brushed against the cool metal as he rummaged for something else, something that would somehow save the world in the next few seconds, but they were withdrawn hurriedly; as if the metal was burning hot. And in some ways it was; it was still boiling with memories, scalding hot and tainted with love.

He knows exactly where the other one is. It is on Gallifrey, in a Forgotten Vault, in the Desperation Pits; locked away for all eternity, hidden from all eyes for the rest of time. The Time Lords are cold, callous bastards. They deny love, even when it is thrown in their faces and written across the stars. They never were able to see past their own noses, let alone their definitions of Right and Wrong.

The rings themselves were, and still are, beautiful; two identical gold Celtic knots, winding round and round and round their fingers; no beginning and no end. He remembers the words they had said as they had slipped them onto each others fingers in almost painful clarity; remembers how Zoë had insisted they take a photograph - now faded and dull and rotting in a photograph frame somewhere in the TARDIS - and how she had giggled when Jamie blushed when they kissed and squealed at their rings, those two beautiful alien rings. He remembers how they spent their wedding night.

He remembers the joy on Jamie's young face, the glow of his pale skin. He remembers long limbs and grasping hands, sweat-slicked sheets and muffled moans and delicious little gasps. He remembers the whispers of love and devotion and forever. How stupid he was. How could he even have thought he had the chance for forever with his love? Forever was for fools; for lovesick old scarecrows and their naïve Scottish lovers.

And so he forgot. Forgetting is nearly painless; remembering feels like someone is digging a dagger- a dirk- into his stomach and twisting and laughing. At least, he tried to. But he can never forget. Not with the ring. Not with proof. Not with his memory.

He stares intensely at it, running his finger over the grooves, whispering those far-off words that bound him in the most intimate of ways to his beautiful, incredible, wonderful Scot. Maybe it's good. Maybe it keeps him whole. Maybe - just maybe - he still has the capacity to love. Maybe. Maybe it's time he let his walls down, let someone else in.

"Adric? Can I talk to you for a moment?"

_Whether the weather be dreich or fair, my luve,_

_if guid times greet us, or we hae tae face the wurst,_

_ahint and afore whit will happen tae us:_

_blind in the present, eyes open to furore,_

_unkempt or sharply dressed, suddenly puir or poorly,_

_peelie-wally or in fine fackle, beld or frosty,_

_calm as a ghoul or in a feery-farry,_

_in dork December or in springy Spring weather,_

_doon by the Barrows; on the banks o' the Champs_

_d'Elysees,_

_at mid-nicht, first licht, whether the mune_

_be roond or crescent, and ye be o' soond mind_

_or absent, I'll tak your trusty haund_

_and lead you over the haw- hame, ma darling._

_I'll carry ma lantern and daur defend ye agin ony_

_enemy;_

_and whilst there is breath in me, I'll blaw it intae ye._

_Fir ye are ma true luve, the bonnie face I see afore me;_

_nichts I fall intae slumber, it's ye I see swimmingly -_

_all yer guidness and blitheness, yer passion._

_You'll be mine, noo, an' till the end of time,_

_ma bonnie lassie, I'll tak the full guid o' ye'_

_and gie it back, and gie it back tae ye:_

_a furst kiss, a lang promise: time's gowden ring._

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><p>I hope you enjoyed this, please review and tell me your thoughts. Thank you!<p> 


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